A Country Gentleman and His Family

turning his back upon the combat, though he would fain have stood by her in it. Warrender had taken no part in this; he had made no response to Geoff’s appeal. He was walking up and down with all the signs of impatience, pale with passion and opposition. He paused, however, as the boy went away, a solitary forlorn little figure stealing along the avenue in silence, too dutiful even to look back. Lady Markland stood, too, and looked after him, with a pang of compunction, of compassion, of heart-yearning, which it would be impossible to put into words. Her boy! who had been her chief, almost only companion for years; who was more dear⁠—was he more dear?⁠—than anyone; who was her very own, all her own, with no feeling in his mind or experience in his little consciousness that was not all hers⁠—and this man bade her send him away, separate from her child: this⁠—man. It is not safe for a union when one of the parties thinks of the other as that man. All at once a light had flashed up in Lady Markland’s heart. She had been made very soft, very submissive, by her marriage. She had married a young man, younger than herself. She had seemed to herself ever since to be asking pardon of him and of the world for doing so. But now his violence had called her back to herself. She had not been too soft or submissive in the old days. She had been a woman with a marked character, not always yielding. The temporary seemed suddenly to disappear out of her life, and the original came back. She stood for a moment looking after her child, and then, being feeble of body, though waking up to such force of mind, she went to a bench which stood on the edge of the road, and sat down there. “If this is as you say, it is better that we should understand each other,” she said.

Her tone had changed. From the anxiety to soften and smooth everything, the constant strain of deprecation and apology which had become habitual to her, she had suddenly emerged into a composure which was ominous, which was almost tragic. Even the act of sitting down, which was due to her weakness, made her appear as if taking a high position, assuming an almost judicial place. She did not intend it so, but this was the effect it produced upon Warrender, stinging him more deeply still. He felt that he was judged, that his wife had thrown off the yoke which he had made so heavy, and that his chance of bringing her back to her subjection, and of forcing her into the new and sudden decision which he called for, was small. This conviction increased his fury, but it also made him restrain the outward signs of it. He went after her, and stood in front of the bench of which she had made a sort of judicial throne.

“You are right in that,” he said. “Things have gone too far to return to their old level. I must have my house to myself, and for that reason it must be my own. I wish you to come with me to the Warren⁠—the children and you.”

“Your mother and your sisters are there,” she said, fixing upon him a steady look.

“What does that matter? There is room, I hope, at all times for the master of the house.”

“You ask me,” she said, “to turn all my life upside down, to change my habits and arrangements, at a moment’s notice. But you have not told me why. Have you told me? You have said that my little boy of twelve has offended you, and that you knocked him down. Is that why I must change my house, and all my life?”

The slow steadiness of her tone made him frantic; that, more than the deliberate way in which she was putting him in the wrong.

“I have told you,” he cried, “that I am in a false position altogether, and that I will not bear it any longer! You ought to see that I am in a false position. As for your little boy⁠—of twelve⁠—”

“What of him?” she asked, growing very pale, and rising again from her seat.

“Only this one thing, Frances: that you can’t serve God and mammon, you know; you can’t keep both. You must choose between him and me.”

“Choose!” She sat down again suddenly, as if her strength had failed her. “Choose! between Geoff, my little Geoff⁠—my boy⁠—my baby⁠—Geoff⁠—”

There was a kind of ridicule in her voice, a ridicule which was tragic, which was full of passion, which sounded like a scoff at something preposterous, as well as an indignant protest.

“Your scorn does not make it different. Yes, Geoff, who is all that: and me⁠—between him and me.”

For a moment they gazed at each other, having arrived at that decisive point, in a duel of the kind, when neither antagonist can find a word more to say. Lady Markland was very pale. She had been brought in a moment from her ease and quiet, when she expected no harm, to what might be the most momentous decision. She was still feeble, her nerves strained and weak from the long tension at which they had been held. She had clasped her hands together, and the fingers quivered. Her eyes seemed to grow larger and more luminous as she looked at him. “Theo,” she said with a long breath. “Theo! do you know⁠—what you are saying? Do you mean⁠—all that⁠—all that?”

He thought he was going to get an easy, an unlooked-for victory; he congratulated himself with a swift flash of premature triumph that he had pushed matters to a crisis, that he had been so firm. “Yes,” he cried, “I mean it all! We can’t go on longer as we are. You must choose between him and me.”

She kept looking at him, still without relaxing from that fixed gaze. “Do you know